


What Kind of Man (Loves like This?)

by KingStygian, starthirst (KingStygian)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drowning, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Jaskier knows what he's worth, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Nobody Dies, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Playing fast and loose with the canon here, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Episode S01E08 Much More, dub con, just in case, no betas we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22586680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingStygian/pseuds/KingStygian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingStygian/pseuds/starthirst
Summary: Geralt realises an hour later he berates Jaskier the mistake he has made and how he has to live with it. Weeks later, he realises he can't. So before he dies during a fight by being distracted by the memory of Jaskier's wet eyes and clenched fists on top of a mountain, Geralt decides to apologise. Only, it's not that easy.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 65





	1. You Were On The Other Side (Like Always)

**Author's Note:**

> Little UA (Universe Alterations) I added because I’m already playing fast and loose with the canon timeline.  
> 1) While Yennefer and Geralt have fucked but Yennefer doesn’t have feelings for Geralt and Geralt has moved on because he’s realised he likes Jaskier’s company more.  
> 2) They adventured together for years on end and only parted ways a handful of times, like when Jaskier went to College. Get that ‘years apart’ shit away from me.
> 
> I had to stop myself editing the chapter bc it's been over a month and I just need to post it. It's late though, so depending I might even edit it when I get up in the morning. This chapter is mostly Geralt watching Jaskier and thinking about their time together, it's a tad bit OC heavy but fear not! It'll be worth it next chapter! I am a little bit rusty, I haven't been writing much lately but I hope you enjoy.

Geralt isn’t in the business of making mistakes. He was by no means a perfectionist, far from it. But unlike a miller that might misjudge the amount of grain they have to mill; any mistake was enough to kill Geralt. He simply had to use the wrong rune, drink the wrong potion or swing his sword the wrong way and just like that. Dead. His body if not eaten by wild animals or by whatever killed him, rotting into nothing. No-one to notice or mourn him. It was a fate that Geralt was resigned to. Geralt wasn’t rushing to this end, he, rightly, wanted to avoid as long as he could. He had been lucky that the mistakes he’d made thus far could be paid for with his blood and flesh, sometimes coin. There was one mistake, he’d made recently, that he needed to right before it got him killed.

The sun hasn’t even set all the way and all the warmth from the day has leaked out through the dusk. Geralt’s back is stiff from riding all day at a laggard pace to keep Roach from fatiguing. He rolls his head, and a satisfying crack sounds out. Roach is starting to complain about the cold, Geralt could feel her stomach rumbling through the saddle. She isn’t finished growing her winter coat and she is suffering from it. If this is only the frost of Fall, the coming Winter is going to be terrible. He mentally notes to keep an eye on Roach’s coat. If it gets too cold before she’s done growing it, he may need to buy a quarter sheet for her. Rest in a stable is what she needs and thankfully, they come upon their destination before night sets in, before the cold finishes creeping across the land. 

It was a trade town, full of farmers and smiths alike just making do with selling their wares and exchanging favours for favours. An easy life that Geralt admires. A few people stare at him as he rides through the streets, many of them quick to duck down a side street or a vendor’s niche if it meant avoiding him. It’s just as well the streets are straight forward enough that Geralt doesn’t have to ask for directions, so he uses his tracking skills and senses to find the loudest building that smells of sour mead.

The sound of the people inside is already loud as Geralt dismounts Roach.  
Town pubs are usually the oldest buildings in town, since humankind’s first need outside of warmth, safety and food was decidedly alcohol. The wood is rotting on the outside and the thatched roof is starting to sink from decomposition, but on a cold night like this, it’ll be packed to the rafters with guests. There’s a sign hanging off a wrought iron bracket that had at one time announced the establishment as, what Geralt thought it to be through his squinted eyes, ‘The King’s Head’. 

A tingle races up his spine as the chill of night brushes against his face. The pub has a little adjoining stable, a perfect place for Roach to rest. He places a copper in the stable hand’s waiting palm and fixes the young man with a stern look that he hopes accurately conveys the message ‘do not fuck with my horse’. To his credit, the stable hand doesn’t look scared but the distinct scent of fear strikes the air. Roach nickers at him admonishingly as he takes his swords off her. He doesn’t expect trouble. Then again, trouble seemed to love him as much as destiny hated him. He gives Roach a fond pat.  
“Wait here.” He says, adjusting his hood, “Hopefully I’ll be back with your friend.”  
Roach simply whips her tail at him in response.

Geralt makes for the pub door and with one easy shove, throws it open.  
The wall of noise from the pub is tangible. Geralt’s brow creases with distaste. Men yelling over each other to be heard, others were playing Gwent and loudly accusing each other of cheating. Near the bar is a table of farmworkers drunkenly singing a jig. A merry scene by most standards. Regardless, Geralt keeps his hood up because though it is merry, rowdy men sure loved to pick fights when they were drunk. Especially with Witchers. He finds an unoccupied seat in the corner and orders an ale he has no intention of drinking from a passing barmaid. The lack of lute music is already disappointing Geralt, but he scans the pub’s patrons anyway.

Geralt had regretted what he had said to Jaskier the moment the words had left his mouth. He was too prideful and foolish to denounce them then and there. He should have assured Jaskier that he didn’t mean any of it, he was just angry at himself for losing Yennefer and that would have been it. Well, not _it _, Jaskier still would’ve been upset with him but he’d probably still be by Geralt’s side. Instead, he clamped his jaw shut and left, completely abandoning the man, bone headedly forgetting that they were at the top of the Dragon Mountains, a place dangerous for Witchers, let alone bards. By the time Geralt had realized, he was an hour down the mountain and had no idea where Jaskier was. Panicked, Geralt had spent the night searching for him. When he finally reached the bottom of the mountain, dread sat heavy against his heart. Jaskier wasn’t there but Roach had been fed and Jaskier’s other effects that were stored with Roach’s saddle were gone. It had to be Jaskier, or else some stupid bandit stole a handful of silks and left a perfectly good horse and saddle alone. Even if it did bring some peace to Geralt to know that Jaskier had at least made it down the mountain, he was disappointed that hadn’t heard of him since.__

____

____

He traveled towards Cintra, towards the child he needed to take responsibility for, though his path was vague. He couldn’t bring himself to travel directly there. Instead, he wandered from village to village in a meandering, serpentine path, tortured himself day and night thinking about things better kept bottled up. He rarely slept, instead, Geralt laid awake at night, trying to examine what it was that made him try and bind a woman that hated nothing more than being leashed, that always wanted more, to his destiny. She was right to be angry. And, Jaskier. If he was alive and Gods, he had to be. Geralt would feel it in the air if Jaskier passed away. Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if every ballad the bard had written him was now bitter. That the bard now sang of a heartless beast of a man better kept at arm’s length rather than a ‘friend of humanity’. Even if he’d never guess it to be in Jaskier’s nature to do so, Geralt’s insides tied up in knots at the possibility that Jaskier, having seen Geralt’s black heart for what it was, now sung of his rotten nature. That when Geralt saw him again he would throw the very same barbed words he’d used to cast the bard away, to begin with, would tell him that he could grant him a blessing and _fuck right off_.

Yet, here he was. Dodging the eye sight of every man still sober enough to be curious about the hulking figure in a cloak.  
All for a chance to make things right, in case Queen Calanthe put a thousand arrows in him on sight. He didn’t want to die without making it right with Jaskier. Geralt couldn’t see him on the stage, peacocking around and singing one of his songs.  
Maybe he wasn’t here at all, the information that Geralt had could’ve been wrong.

Geralt had come from a village back towards Hengfors. It was foolishly built upon a graveyard, thus plagued with a great number of ghouls. So many that they could join together to create one big amalgamation of rotting flesh. The village had become desperate to undo their plight and they were running out of firewood to keep the bonfire that kept the ghouls away lit. Many villagers had already left, but the ones that remained suffered. The village leader had all but gotten to his knees to beg Geralt for help. It took two nights of painful, endless fighting but Geralt triumphed. After the ordeal, the village had rejoiced and there was something of a celebration in the village hall. 

The village leader lamented that the bard that just passed through would’ve been devastated if he knew he’d missed out on such a celebration. The chances were slim but Geralt, throat tight had asked about the bard. The man told him that the ghouls had grabbed him as he tried to leave the village in the night. The man had survived by cutting himself free with a silver dagger and running to the bonfire. He had told the people of the village; he’d learned that from a Witcher.  
Geralt had pictured the silver dagger he’d given to Jaskier to defend himself after their sixth month of traveling together and a drowner had almost dragged him into a swamp. The village leader told him the bard said he was heading towards Aed Gynvael through the Kestrel mountains. Geralt left after him immediately in the morning. He knew it had to be Jaskier since it was the bard’s songs that had made the people receptive and tentatively kind to him. Only one bard in the entire sphere would be responsible for that.

That bard is the only one sitting, or more accurately, swaying at the bar. Watching him makes Geralt a little dizzy. Jaskier is wearing a different jacket than the one he’d seen him in last. This one was grey and a little drab for his style but he wears it well. He looks so strange leaning on his hands at the bar by himself. Geralt had never seen him so still. He was always moving, tapping things, strumming his lute, pacing. 

Geralt doesn’t need to sit close to smell the drink on his breath or listen to his drunken mumbles to know how many Jaskier has had. It was easy to talk to Jaskier like this before, when he’d have too many because they had the coin after a successful night of monster-slaying and performing. Jaskier spoke his heart often, but when he was drunk it for some reason carried a lot more credibility. After all, hadn’t a wise man said a drunk man spoke a sober mind? Geralt’s mouth was dry. 

Jaskier was going to be mad at him, like he was weeks after his ‘filling less pie’ comment. He was going to say a lot of things about Geralt that he deserved. It wasn’t the first time this had occurred to him. He nearly died felling a fleder a fortnight ago when mid-battle he recalled in too great detail the wetness of Jaskier’s eyes and the tightness of his voice when he’d stumbled over some hair thin goodbye, ignoring that Geralt had taken a sword to his feelings. 

Not his proudest moment by far.

Jaskier finishes off his drink and has to argue with the barkeep to be allowed another. Geralt stops, thinking about the probability of Jaskier remembering their conversation tomorrow morning.  
That was the point, wasn’t it? Apologize, make peace with the fact he’d burnt a bridge to someone who only ever wished Geralt well so after dealt with his child of surprise he could go back to hunting monsters for coin without being distracted. The barmaid returns with a tankard of watered-down beer and sets it down in front of him. He pays and sips at it to alleviate his dry mouth.

It could be the light but Jaskier’s face looks wet. He doesn’t look at any ladies with fondness in his eyes, doesn’t get up with his lute in hand. The only thing he seems to be interested in is his drink, which he drains too quickly and orders another one just as fast. But though he is not standing, lute in hand to perform one of his many jigs and songs, Geralt is close enough to hear him crooning a soft melancholy melody in between swigs of his drink. 

It was one of the many habits that Jaskier had, at least one of the ones Geralt noticed. It had been a nuisance when they were traveling at night, when it wasn’t safe to camp in the lands they trod. Soft, slow melodies under his breath that were meant for him only, to comfort himself. These, of course, where Geralt’s favourite compositions by far and when he caught Jaskier doing it, he would often pretend not to notice.

Geralt is considering his plan, whether he should wait for Jaskier to be sober in the morning or try his luck now when a young woman with fawn light hair and an easy smile slides next to Jaskier. She gives him a little half-wave as she waits to order at the bar. Jaskier tries to wave back but it upsets his balance entirely and he pitches to one side, tumbling off his chair faster than Geralt can reach him. The woman throws her arms out to steady him before he hits the ground. There are coiled, wiry muscles flexing under her fair, olive skin as she settles him in his seat. For her trouble, Jaskier turns his head towards her then promptly throws up on her boots.  
A mirthful snort escapes Geralt before he feels guilty for laughing. That would have been funny, yet, it didn’t seem tasteful to laugh at Jaskier right now. 

Jaskier says something to her, probably a slurred apology for spilling ale and throwing up on her. Even drunk, Jaskier has better manners than Geralt. Strangely she stops dead, by the way she stares at him her eyebrows all the way up, Geralt guesses that he said something incredibly inappropriate. However, she schools her face into a neutral expression, doesn’t backhand Jaskier like all the maids who didn’t appreciate his strong advances did. Slowly, she reaches over and pours out Jaskier’s drink onto her boots. Geralt wondered if she was cutting him off or decided it’s better to have ale on your shoes than vomit. There were a few times in the past where he’s done the same thing. Jaskier typically was better managed but he had on occasion thrown up on Geralt when he forgot matching a Witcher drink for drink is a bad idea.

Geralt idly recalls the way he’d have to heave Jaskier up to their room, the bard chortling like a fool, focusing too hard on where he put his feet. He always passed out before Geralt could set him down on the bed, sleeping as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Watching him sway as he leans in to hear the woman speak, Geralt wants to wrap him up and put him to bed for the night but he stays where he is. He’ll wait until the bard passes out and take him either up to his room if Jaskier has one or to wherever Geralt finds shelter tonight. Through it might be cruel to force the bard to deal with their reconciliation the first thing when he wakes, likely noon given the amount he’s imbibed, he’d rather Jaskier slept somewhere safe. 

Apparently, this is something Geralt is right to worry about, seeing that not a moment later, a tradesman with arms as thick as logs, slips in the mix of spew and ale, tumbling to the ground, his drinks splashing on top of him. Jaskier explodes with laughter. Bizarrely, despite the poor timing, Geralt is relieved to see the bard’s smile, hear the familiar laugh that followed him for years over the bustle of the crowd.  
‘Oh,’ Geralt thinks, as the sound warmly washes over him.

The tradesman gets back to his feet, his face beet red and hands curled into fists.  
“Sloppy coxcomb!” he exclaims. He swings at Jaskier, but the woman stops him by the wrist and shoves him several feet back towards his table of friends before he goes for attempt two.  
“Leave off,” She snarls at the tradesman, “He’s too drunk to stand. You call that a fight?”

The tradesman stumbles, face contorted in anger. His friends, however, are much more mild-mannered and start pulling him back towards the table and patting his face placatingly.  
“Ulvar, settle down.” One of the other tradesmen says, helping his friend find a seat, “Yer wife’ll have yer ‘ead if ye start another brawl.”  
The woman nods approvingly at the men. As a reward for not starting a fight that Geralt was sure she’d win, the woman sets a coin in the barkeep’s hand to order them another round. Geralt notices that he’s standing and sits back down. Nobody is looking at him, all of them are focused on the scuffle. 

The woman lingers close to Jaskier in case the tradesman decides to be foolish. Geralt wants to approach Jaskier but he’s cheered up considerably just chatting to the woman. The corners of his eyes pick up and he sits up properly without resting his chin on his hands. 

The longer Geralt watches, a nagging in the back of his head makes him bitterly aware that the woman is exactly Jaskier’s type. Though he fell in love with almost everyone at first sight, Geralt, loathe to admit, had noticed the kind of woman Jaskier preferred. When they had just met, Jaskier had preferred sweet, curvy women that swooned at his courtly antics and prose, which might have been why he stayed stuck on Countess De Stael for so long though she treated him varyingly. As the years continued, Jaskier stopped taking so many one-night lovers. When he did, Geralt didn’t see the woman, nor did he hear of any boasting from Jaskier about the shenanigan. Perhaps he was tired of Geralt shouting at him after having to fight off yet another hired sword sent by another cucked husband. Soon enough, Jaskier’s tastes had evolved to include bright witted, hard-working women with flaxen hair and good humor, which as least involved fewer stately cucked husbands that could afford to hire assassins. 

The woman was directly between the two types. Broad-shouldered, light-haired but round in the face and waist. Her clever eyes were bright as she brought Jaskier to her table, closer to where Geralt was sitting. The two men that were sitting there passively chatting greet her. Luckily, Jaskier sits with his back to the door so Geralt doesn’t have to work to stay out of his line of sight. Since they’re closer, Geralt’s super-hearing can pick out some of the conversation against the cacophony of sounds if he focuses just right.

“Jaskier is coming with us to Tretogor.” The woman says around a mouthful of bread, “Safety in numbers,”  
“Three is a safe enough number,” The redhead replies and in return is served an icy glare from the woman.

Geralt, selfishly wants them to reject Jaskier. He tells himself it’s so Jaskier doesn’t leave before they can talk. Geralt doesn’t want the trouble of trying to find Jaskier again before making way to Cintra. His heart calls him a liar.

“I’m sorry to be a bother,” Jaskier picks at the piece of bread the woman hands him, “I’m going back to my alma mater in Oxenfurt.”  
“Surely you’d do better to travel and earn coin where entertainment is scarce.”  
Jaskier shakes his head. His hair is much longer than he’d ever kept it when they traveled together, Geralt notices.  
“Just going through a rough patch is all,” Jaskier says blithely, “I need a place to settle down.”  
The red-haired man pats Jaskier’s shoulder sympathetically. “A break-up?” he guesses.  
The bard shakes his head profusely, hands clenching tightly.  
“The Witcher,” Jaskier’s head turns upwards, for a moment he looks like he’s going to pitch over, “From my song, you know the coin one? That one. I _never_ want to talk about him again.”

Geralt’s stomach drops to his shoes, the corners of his vision go blurry. That's bile coming up the back of his throat, souring his mouth more than the ale did. He realizes, belatedly, that it’s his fault that Jaskier is like this. Even after all these months. The awful thing she had said cut deeper than Geralt thought. He can smell the salt, the same way he could on the mountain. Jaskier buries his face into his folded arms looking so small. He mumbles something that is lost to the noise but he receives another pat from the redhead. This seems to be enough to sway both men to the agreement. 

The woman gazes at Jaskier sympathetically.  
“Jaskier, I think you better go to bed. C’mon,” she says firmly, the same way Yennefer spoke when she had made up her mind. She persuades Jaskier up, links her arm around Jaskier’s to help steady him. A vision of Geralt ripping her off him grips Geralt so suddenly it startles him out of processing all the information he’d received.

Jaskier didn’t want to travel anymore. He wanted to settle down, build a life. He didn’t want death and destiny and heroes because of the heartbreak that had hit him square in the gut. Jaskier didn’t even want to talk about him, rightly so, since there was nothing good at all about Geralt so why should Jaskier waste his breath?  
There’s nothing for him here. He saw to that on the mountain when he ruined everything good he had.  
It’s torture to watch the woman help Jaskier reach the stairs, so he casts his eyes to the floor and shrinks so no-one notices him. When they’re out of sight he rises, throws his swords over his shoulder making for the door. 

He thinks Jaskier’s up the stairs, but there’s a clang and twang of strings as a lute hits the ground and Geralt haltingly realizes that he didn’t hear Jaskier take his lute and he didn’t see him take it because he was staring at the ground. Geralt can hear the unmistaken shutter of breath and

“ _Oh, it can’t be._ ”

Shit.  
Geralt covertly quickens his pace. He makes it to the door before Jaskier can weave through the crowd on his drunken feet and swiftly turns on his heel to hide behind the door.  
Jaskier’s footsteps stop in the doorway, the light sound of him falling to his knees doesn’t escape Geralt. Geralt can hear everything now that all that separated them was a door. The thumping of his heart, fast like the first time he caught a glimpse of Geralt with his eyes fully black, the heaving of his breath shuttering through his chest and then there’s the smell of Jaskier’s sweet, citrusy cologne makes Geralt’s throat tight with how achingly comforting it is. 

“Are you alright?” He hears the woman ask.

“Yeah.” Jaskier replies croakily, “I thought I saw something.”

He stays there for a moment, Geralt listening to his heartbeat rabbiting against his ribcage and using all of his strength to hold himself still, to not come out from hiding and talk to Jaskier for the first time in months. To not bother Jaskier with his existence. The moment concludes and Geralt sees Jaskier’s hand, fingernails bitten to the quick, curl around the door to steady himself as he gets up. The door swings shut. Geralt waits, listens to Jaskier’s footsteps fade away into the rest of the noise. And for once, Geralt has done right by Jaskier. By staying away.

Geralt is on Roach and heading towards the woods quickly. She's upset she's been taken from the warmth but doesn't complain, It’s not too late to set up a camp there. He looks back at the pub, fighting to keep his head quiet but all he can numbly think is _‘You deserve this. You never deserved him.’_ Over and over again.  
He reaches one hand smoothing over Roach’s mane.  
“I’m sorry,” He says thickly, “I didn’t bring him back.”


	2. Wondering What To Do With Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, with too many thoughts in his head, tries to avoid Jaskier all over the Continent. He has a varying amount of success.

Geralt catches himself looking for Jaskier across the fire too many times to pretend this feeling was only fleeting. Now more than ever he wished the stories were true, that witchers didn’t feel anything. If he didn’t feel anything, he wouldn’t be riding at a four-beat gait to keep pace with a man that wasn’t beside him, he wouldn’t be absently fixing a second portion of rations for a man not sitting on his bedroll complaining ‘Geralttt the ground is wet’, and he most certainly would not hear the phantom soft hum of a lute as he slept. Inconveniently, the ugly truth was Geralt was just as capable of feeling as the next man and the burden of these feelings rendered him weary.

The kind of weary that stuck to your ribs, crawled up your throat, strangled you from the outside in. It makes him apathetic, wantless. He’s sick of traveling to Cintra. He doesn’t want to think about what might happen to him when he arrived there. Perhaps Queen Calanthe would have him executed, or the child’s mother might shriek the flesh clean off his bones. What would he even do with a child? Damn them to a life of monsters and misery? If he was a worst man, or a more selfish one, maybe. Putting it off wasn’t helping either. The meandering path he’d charted was agony. He knew he could make better time by being more selective with the jobs he took, but like everything else, it wasn’t that simple. At this time of year, autumn, the days grew cold and the nights stretched on longer. The monsters had more shadows to crawl around in, too many towns he passed had too many problems that he just couldn’t turn a blind eye to. 

Geralt wondered if he was the only Witcher doing his job. Geralt knew some cats had chosen to become pet Witchers for royals, which didn’t surprise him at all. He had to think that the rest be they wolves, griffins or cats, had done the same, if they hadn’t died or gone back to their keeps, or simply abandoned The Path. He wouldn’t blame them if they did. Sometimes Geralt wonders if he should’ve abandoned The Path.

Since he’d stopped moving forward, been trapped in this funk, all the should’ve of his past caught up with him. There were too many of them, some worth the good it did in the end, some useless thoughts. He shouldn’t have been baited by Yennefer, shouldn’t have chained her to him with a Djinn’s wish, should’ve told Jack Three Daws to fuck off even if he was a dragon that could burn him in one breath for the insolence. He should have bitten his tongue off before he could say anything to Jaskier, should have gone to the coast with him. 

It could’ve turned out horribly. The town could’ve had an infestation of any dangerous saltwater creature or even harpies and griffins. A jilted lover might’ve tried to exact revenge on Jaskier. They could’ve been run out of town, many places still considered witchers an omen of despair. They would’ve been together at least. It’s too bad out of all things, that’s what Geralt knows he wants for sure. To see Jaskier again. Geralt, however, had made a choice and he wasn’t going to uproot Jaskier’s life because he was suddenly incapable of being alone.

That’s what he told himself anyway. At first, it’s easy. Geralt stays away from towns unless he has business there, sleeps rough and never stays in one place for too long. Then, it’s not so easy. It starts with a little town south that is having problems with a quasit. After Geralt kills it and returns to the tavern to collect his payment from the sheriff, he’s diverted by the sight of Jaskier, face flushed and leading the band in a merry jig with an ear to ear grin. Geralt lingers in the doorway just out of sight, unsure of what to do until the sheriff spots him and meets him in the doorway with his coin. He can’t help but notice the bard looks a little lean so he gives the sheriff the coin to order a plate on Jaskier’s behalf and turns on his heel. 

After that, it seems he can’t go a fortnight or more without nearly bumping into the bard. At the markets of Pont Vanis, he sights Jaskier holding a kalimba reverently while buying strings for his lute. When he leaves without it, disappointed, something in Geralt possesses him to buy the stupid thing, parcel it up and have it sent to the Lord’s house Jaskier is staying in. Again, on the streets of a village outside of Hengfors, where Geralt frightens a baker by leaping behind his counter to avoid being spotted as Jaskier meanders down the narrow street. It only occurs to him he’s being ridiculous in his efforts to evade Jaskier when a week later he has to leave his rented room through the window because Jaskier in the inn’s downstairs parlor with no intention of leaving soon enough for Geralt to make it to his appointment with the alderman about a bulette that kept eating the grain farmers.

Nine days ago he came dangerously close to spoiling all his hard work when he finds Jaskier, drunk after a night of performing, dead asleep at the bar. Jaskier’s tousled hickory brown hair fanning out around his face, the candle light catching the sunspots featherlight splayed on his skin. Geralt obviously doesn’t like the thought of leaving him all alone in the tavern, so he finds where the bard is staying and puts him to bed. The mere presence of the bard puts Geralt at more ease than he’s felt in weeks and the thought of leaning against the wall next to the bed and lulling to sleep next to Jaskier does creep cross his mind, and is violently dismissed. As he leaves, tipping the bar lady a copper to say nothing about him if asked. 

Winter has hit the Continent like a child clobbering ants with a rock. Geralt is fast beginning to regret his last-minute decision to not return to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He thought doing the hard yards over the winter would do him some good. He was already feeling wrong about that.

The festival in town is affecting Geralt’s already foul mood. He’d planned to leave town early in the morning before it had arrived, only the snobby Mayor’s secretary who’d hired him to slay a few scraggly drowners had lied. It was a kikimora queen terrorizing the town. It would’ve been so handy to know about that tidbit beforehand, so Geralt hadn’t had to spend most of the night up to his eyeballs in kikimora shit. Naturally, when Geralt was finished with the job he stomped straight into the secretary’s office, slicken with kikimora guts and dropped the head of the queen on his desk. It was a wonder that the secretary didn’t shit himself as he quickly paid Geralt three times the amount they’d agreed on just to get Geralt out.  
Geralt promptly found the nearest pub, bathed, ate and slept for so long he didn’t even see the morning of the next day.

He had woken to the sound of the opening ceremony, where too many troubadours played pitchy instruments that made Geralt’s head thump and made the already substantial pain coursing through his body curdle. He laid, stubbornly trying to drown out the sound well enough to return to sleep. He, at least, didn’t have to tolerate the pain if he was asleep. He figured it was a futile effort after some idiot with a drum drops and butter fingers fumbles, causing a ruckus louder than a griffin’s roar. When he finally pulls his pants on and heads out, it’s late afternoon. Geralt comforts himself with the fact he has enough coin to at least partake in some of the food and beverages the festival had to offer on his way out. 

The light coming from the many torches is almost warm enough to render the power of the frost weak. It’s so bright it makes Geralt’s eyes water. Sound is bursting from every which way. Geralt has the misfortune of being able to hear every note, every melody, and voice at the same time. He’s concentrating very hard on the sound of his footsteps, the crisp crunch of snow that accompanies every footfall, to block out the rest of the noise. It wouldn’t be this bad once the potion, the one he took to heighten his senses for last night’s fight, wore off. There’s a big bonfire in the square, breathing smoke that wafts into up towards the sky, warming the people gathered. 

The townspeople are pleasant enough. Nobody throws anything at him, or noticeably leaps out of his path to avoid him.  
Geralt allows himself to buy a hot meal and a drink, since the day was already awful enough without him munching on half frozen rations somewhere in the wilds. He finishes the meal all too quickly. Nursing his mead, he wonders to himself what the fuck was he doing anymore. The music is making him more irritable, as he tries to piece together his thoughts in between chords. 

A bard is laughing somewhere behind him as he launches into another song. Geralt recognizes the tune as The Fishmonger’s Daughter. The festival folk are clapping along with the beat, delighted. Geralt, haltingly, thinks of Jaskier and that night in Cintra. The banquet was just as delighted as he pranced around the room, the Lords less so when they noticed Jaskier winking at their ladies. The crowd starts singing along, far too loud and all of them singing a different part of the song to the one the bard was singing.

Geralt has had enough of the noise. He needed some perspective, some direction. He needed some fucking peace to think about what he was doing. It’s not too late to travel up the valley to Kaer Morhen. If he gathered supplies and tomorrow morning, he’d make it to the doors before the snow set in. Roach would be more comfortable in the stables instead of the road. Geralt rises. At the same time, the bard missteps and slides on the table slickened by beer. An unknown instinct takes over his body, and Geralt stops mid-step, throwing his arms out to catch the man.

Jaskier is looking up at him, the song dying on his lips as all the colour drains from his face. At that moment, Geralt sincerely believes destiny, that capricious bitch has nothing to do but ruin Geralt’s life. Geralt can’t seem to finds the words. All he can do is meet Jaskier’s eyes, cornflower blue, iris blown wide. His body so close to his that he can feel the blood under Jaskier’s skin coursing through his veins, feel the pulse of his heart quicken.  
Geralt stumbles for something to say, grappling for one of the many apologies he'd composed in his head. Something right to say to Jaskier. 

“Your hair’s grown,” Geralt remarks dumbly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry I'm so late with the new chapter. I'm a essential worker and I've been unable to dedicate much time to this fic lately. However, I did actually split this off the 5k chapter I wrote because it really was getting too long and it's not even done at 5K, plus I wanted to post something for people following this story to read. I know I promised juice but that'll be the next chapter, which I guarantee will have our favourite bard. Hope you're not disappointed. I might merge this chapter and the next together when I finish it. We'll see. In any case, stay safe and look after yourselves.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was a little bit dry, but I promise the next one is gonna be juicy.  
> Spoiler for next chapter: The dub con tag is for next chapter. It's not as dark as it sounds but please be warned. I hope to have the next chapter up soon!


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